


on loving a wounded boy

by Of_Frost_and_Fire



Series: to hell with my suffering, a clurphy collection [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Clurphy - Freeform, Dom/sub, Drabble Collection, Drama, F/M, Minor Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin, Sexual Content, Unrequited Love, clarphy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-30 06:39:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5153960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Of_Frost_and_Fire/pseuds/Of_Frost_and_Fire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>more than anything,<br/>there will be moments when he looks at you<br/>like you alone put the sun in the sky,<br/>and his sigh against your lips<br/>will be a supernova and an autumn wind<br/>all at once.</p><p>kiss him once.<br/>kiss him again.<br/>kiss him until he forgets he’s broken,<br/>and kiss him until you forget<br/>that you’re broken<br/>too.</p><p>-Clarphy Collection</p>
            </blockquote>





	on loving a wounded boy

“Fuck your soft words.  
Compare me not to stars  
But to storms, to hurricanes and typhoons.  
See me not for my beauty and fire  
See me for the natural disaster I am.  
Fuck your soft words  
Because I am not soft.: - “margot” l.w. 00:21

 

 

It had started the moment she returned from where ever the hell she came from. It started with hands that had once been soft shoving him hard into the metal of the fallen Ark, he heard his bones ring the steel like a gong and he wondered if she heard it too. She had stared at him with her deep blue eyes, he could see the fire in them, practically smell the burning; god, the chaos in him felt like gasoline. He smirked, leaning against the metal.

“What are you going to do? Stick a knife in me next?” he asked, the sarcasm dripped from his lips like honey but nothing in him was ever so sweet. The look on her face darkened as she remembered her prince charming tied and prepped for his death, how she had put him out of his misery. He realized then, that he couldn’t have killed her that day. Even with a knife pressed to the pretty column of her neck, he couldn’t kill her because he revered her. It was a fucking disgusting feeling, knowing that he would do anything she said only because it left her lips.

Because monsters don’t trust princesses with their lives, they don’t love their darkness and they surely don’t want to be the target of their light.

“What is your problem Murphy? What the hell have I done to you?” she yelled at him, the med bay was empty except the two of them so her voice echoed in the sterile room.

“My problem is that you have been moping around and hiding yourself in this fucking place for weeks, my problem is that the girl who took on the grounders is gone and left whoever the hell this is,” he swept his hand, pointing at her.

She doesn’t take that well, he could see it in her face. The way her brow scrunches up and her lips form a line of disapproval. He has memorized the curves of her face the same why he has memorized her walk and the sound of her voice. It’s annoying and pretentious, yet he doesn’t ever forget.

“Leave me alone, Murphy,” she growls out ready to walk away. He moved before he realized, moving into her path the way men do, stepping into her space as if he believes he could stop her. He knows he cant if she truly wanted to move past him.

“Or what? You’ll cry? Arent you done with that bull shit yet? You did what you had to do to keep everyone alive. You killed people. It happens. Stop wasting your fucking time on trying to be a god damn martyr–”

The sharp pain on his cheek made his ears ring. He hadn’t seen that coming. He looked back at her, watching as her face was something other than that perpetual sadness that she had been wearing like a black veil. It was anger, a fire in blue that reminded him of propane. He couldn’t help the smirk on his lips as he moved his jaw around.

“There you are princess.”

The second time he had found her in the med bay, the camp had fallen silent in sleep. Even the guard was simply stationed at the gate instead of walking about. He couldn’t sleep, too busy trying not dream of knife wielding grounders, water monsters and suicides. No one paid attention to his roaming, everyone knew that he wasn’t allowed a weapon still so it made him bearable. As if he couldn’t smother someone if he wanted, not that he would. Again.

He had heard the crash, the sound of glass breaking before he had seen her. He had walked into a war zone, thrown papers and broken jars, a first aid kit scattered across the floor like a medical emergency gone wrong. The princess stood among it all, all golden waves and muddy boots. She was a something between an angel and the scariest thing he had ever seen. A woman who sent shivers down his spine and left his body confused on how to react. Her head turned to him as the door closed behind him, her blue eyes had those flames again, pink lips parted in small breaths.

“Stay away from me.”

“I’m just trying to help,” he repeated back to her. He could see that she remembered the last time he had told her that, the last time he tried to explain that he was not the fucking bad guy until she decided to make him one.

“You cant help,” she said.

“Bullshit,” he spat, “You dont think I know what this is? You feel guilty because you think what you did was wrong, you feel sad because god, if only right? And now you’re pissed, you’re fucking angry, because you realize that everyone is around you thinks you’re a fucking time bomb and all you want is for the nightmares to go away. Don’t fucking kid yourself, princess.”

She was silent, looking at him with those eyes that always seemed to both make him invisible and transparent, there was a difference. The tension still rolled off of her in waves and he could see her fists tighten at her sides, the way her body was strung like a violin and something inside him (that boy who learned to pull pigtails instead of give hugs) wanted to pluck at her.

“Sucks not being in control doesn’t it, princess?”

She shoves him back again, this time he doesn’t allow himself to budge, but plants his feet and stares her down until she does it again this time with a cry of frustration. He would’ve laughed at her, would’ve commented on her lack of maturity over all this when he catches the way the light hits the new glossiness of her blue eyes. God, no. Not her. Fuck, he would not watch Clarke Griffin cry. Not in front of him, not because of him. She already had too many reasons to hate him.

“No, fuck, Clarke. Stop that right now,” he demanded. Her jaw clenched and she glared at him but the glossiness didn’t go away. Don’t look at him like that, not her. Make her stop. Make her stop.

When he pressed his lips against hers, he wasn’t sure why he did it. Maybe because he remembered his father kissing his mother when she was upset, maybe because he lacked the right words that Bellamy could spew out, maybe he just wanted to think of a reason to kiss the only girl on this fucking planet who believed in his second chance (even if she forgot).

It only took her a moment to shove him away, she looked at him with confused eyes, brow furrowed. He should’ve just walked out, turned his back to her and left with his pride intact. Instead he stared back at her awkwardly taking a step back, as if he could blend into the metal around them, back to the nobody he came in as. He touched his lips, looking down at the ground before pushing himself off the metal wall. This was stupid, fucking ridiculous, why the hell would he—

Her hands were on him again, shoving him back into the metal, making him grit his teeth. The anger in his veins surged, burning his blood like lighting a match, his hands curled into fists. He couldn’t say he didnt think about wrapping them around her neck, couldn’t say that he didn’t think about how it would feel to be in control of something for once yet the moment her eyes met his, he couldn’t bring himself to raise a finger to her.

Instead his bellow of indignation was swallowed by the way her lips crash onto his like a storm hits a tree line, he can honestly say that he had never felt so consumed. It was fucking scary, his scarred hands never felt so empty, so pointless as she sucked the anger out of him with the way her tongue swept over his bottom lip. She tasted of desperation, self-hatred and sin. He was sure that she was still the sweetest thing he had ever had.

So instead wrapping his hands around her neck, he buried them in her hair, gripping the sunlight waves like it would anchor him to the earth. Her mouth moved against his, her hands gripped his shirt and he was sure that her knuckles must be white by now. This, this was how it felt to be devoured, he wondered if she would lick her lips like a well fed animal once she was done before she reclaimed her sanity.

When she pulled away, he couldn’t help but lean down as if to follow the swollen lips that held him a willing slave, drowning in everything that was Clarke Griffin and to be disgusted with himself. Her ocean eyes opened, pupils blown wide with a look that could only belong to queen so he wasn’t surprised when she opened her lips,

“On your knees,” she commanded, a breathy graveled voice that made him shiver, his nerves stand on end and every rebellious cell in his body obeyed her as if she were a cancer that could only consume him. There was a shared breath between them, eyes met and for a moment, their demons recognized each other. His fingers slipped from her hair and he dropped his weight in front of her, eyes never leaving hers. It was demeaning, it was weak, it was helpless but Christ, he couldn’t tell her no. Not her.

The moment her fingers unbuttoned the top of her jeans, it was a wordless understanding of what he was meant to do. His mouth salivated at the invitation, a small nest of insecurities buzzed in his gut, reminding him that he had never done this before. Was he even fucking any good? How was he supposed to know? Her fingers didn’t allow him to think too hard on that, dipping into the sides of her waistband before pushing them down over the swell of her hips, taking her thread worn underwear with them.

His hands moved on their own, taking the task from her and yanking them the rest of the way down until the rough material pooled around her ankles. His eyes left hers just to watch his scarred, calloused hands move up her soft pale calves, grazing dirty nails across the back of her knees until gripping her thighs. He looked up her body, to see her watching him, it was almost cruel the way she seemed to enjoy him paying reverence to her as if she were some god damn angel. He would never admit that she would be the closest thing to heaven he would come, blood stained his hands which made them perfect for her battered soul.  
“Ive never–” he mumbled against her thigh, chapped lips created goosebumps in their wake.

“Shhh,” was her response as she toed out of one boot to lift her left leg over his shoulder. He had never see her so vulnerable yet so in control. He was sure this was why Bellamy followed her into war, why the king of the delinquents would kill to make sure she still had breath. She was a fucking hurricane, a natural disaster that he wanted to drown in because what the fuck did he have to lose? His hands gripped her thighs, holding her in place, sucking in air between his teeth as she ran her fingers through his filthy hair for handfuls to balance herself.

“Murphy,” his name had become a command as well, that was dangerous.

“Getting there, fuck,” he mumbled under his breath, teasing the blonde curls between her legs. He could almost hear the smile on her lips, maybe if he listened close enough he caught the end of laugh. He tried to ignore the swell of pride in his chest, denied the way he smiled against the softness of the inside of her thigh. He didn’t know how crimson stained her hands were, he didn’t know the depths of her darkness or what the emptiness of her guilt sounded like. He didn’t know the sound of her screams in her nightmares or the taste of gun powder on her trigger finger.

But he memorized her moans, burying them in his bones and the deepest scars he could find. 

If only she knew that she tasted like redemption.


End file.
